THE FIERY FURNACE
Dorothy was not likely to scream--not just at the moment she was thrust
into the old shack by her two vigorous captors. For the black-haired
woman clapped her dirty palm right over the girl’s mouth, hissing into
her ear meanwhile:
“Let a squawk out o’ ye, me foine lady, and I’ll choke it back inter
yer throat like a cork-stopper. Understand me, now?”
Dorothy nodded. Although she was greatly startled, she was not so
frightened that she could not think clearly. What would these women
make by trying to hold her captive here, so near a public street?
Surely they would not really injure her if she obeyed them.
“Easy, dear,” urged the light-haired woman, who confessed to the name
of Jane Daggett. “We won’t hurt a hair of her head--but that hat----”
She tore the pretty hat Dorothy wore from her head. Then off came the
girl’s jacket. Jane Daggett spied the watch Dorothy carried.
“The jewelry’s too much for the likes of her,” she said, grinning. “And
there’s her ring.”
The black-haired woman tore the ring from Dorothy’s finger. “That’s
_my_ share, Jane,” she said. “Don’t you be a pig, my dear.”
“Sure we’ll share an’ share alike,” replied Jane Daggett, grimly. “Take
off your dress, my dear,” she commanded Dorothy. “It’s too good for ye.
I’ll give ye one o’ me own. It may be a mite too big for ye; but ye’ll
grow to it,” and she chuckled at her own witticism.
“Oh, please!” gasped Dorothy, now freed from the bigger woman’s hand.
“Hush up!” ordered the black-haired virago.
“She’s got a pretty purse, too,” laughed Jane Daggett, dragging the
article from the coat pocket.
Dorothy could not help crying a little. She dared not make a loud
noise, for she saw that the rougher woman would instantly strangle her
if she did so. But she would not unbutton her dress.
“You’d better mind!” hissed the black-haired woman, in a low voice.
“You’d better----”
The unuttered threat made Dorothy tremble violently. She felt as though
she would faint. Things began to turn black around her. The hideous,
grinning faces of her two captors swam before her gaze----
Suddenly there came a pounding on the wall of the shack. “Hush!” cried
Jane Daggett.
“What’s that?” whispered the other woman.
“My Poke. What’s th’ matter, Poke?”
“Cheese it! Here’s some fellers----”
The drawling voice of the young man who had got the letter at the
post-office ceased. The next instant Dorothy heard the cheerful voice
of Ned White, her big cousin:
“Hullo, you! Didn’t a pretty girl just go past here--a girl with red in
her hat and a tan coat?”
“Don’t know nothin’ erbout no gal,” drawled Poke Daggett.
Now, Poke was naturally a coward. His lantern features likely showed
that he was telling a falsehood, too. Bob Niles’ voice interposed:
“You’ve got good eyes, young fellow. You saw Miss Dale all right. Which
way did she go?”
“Ain’t seen no gal,” drawled Poke.
Jane Daggett had Dorothy by one arm. Her lean fingers were bruising the
tender flesh warningly. On the other side stood the black-haired woman
with a piece of plank held threateningly to strike. Dorothy could see
nails in that plank--if the woman used it, her face would be lacerated!
“Hul-_lo_!” exclaimed Ned’s voice, suddenly.
“Handkerchief, by Jove!” cried Bob.
“It’s Dorothy’s, too! This rascal----”
There was a sudden spurning of the gravel. Poke, lazy as he was, had
begun to run. With a shout Bob leaped away after him.
But Ned turned toward the closed cabin door. The wadded-up handkerchief
had dropped from the cuff of Dorothy’s coat just as she was being
pushed inside. It was off the sidewalk, and Ned’s brain worked quickly.
“Come back here, Bob!” he yelled. “He’s only putting us off the scent.
_Here she is!_”
In a moment Ned burst into the shack. Jane Daggett dodged and ran out.
The black-haired virago aimed a blow at Ned’s head with the plank, but
missed him by a hair’s breadth.
“Look out! Look out!” cried Dorothy, sinking into a corner, out of the
way.
“Oh, I’d give a dollar if you were a man for a minute!” exclaimed Ned,
stepping around the woman to dodge her blows, but having to stand her
coarse vituperations.
Bob came back with a whoop. The woman dodged out and disappeared up the
gully on the trail of Jane Daggett. Dorothy’s hat, coat, watch, purse
and ring went with them.
“They’ve robbed and beaten you, Dot,” cried Ned, beside himself with
rage. “Oh! if they’d only been men so we could hit ’em.”
“Well, now,” began Bob, when Dorothy panted:
“There’s the boy, Ned. Let’s catch him. Never mind my things. That boy
got the letter and he knows about Tom Moran, I am sure.”
“He’s crossed the tracks,” said Bob. “If you hadn’t called me back,
Ned, I’d had him.”
“We’ll get him yet,” declared Ned. “Come on.”
He took his cousin’s hand. Bob seized Dorothy’s other hand and she ran
between them, down across the railroad tracks and up the hill. They
were going toward Rouse’s farm. They saw the lanky, white-haired youth
climbing the heights above them.
Suddenly smoke and fire burst out at a point in the upper pasture far
from Simeon Rouse’s house. It was a fodder stack afire, and Dorothy and
the two boys saw several figures running about it.
The path over the upland which Poke Daggett followed led him right past
the fired stack of corn fodder. Ned and Dorothy both saw this.
“Leave me behind, boys--do,” she gasped. “You can overtake him and I
can’t.”
“Isn’t that Tavia?” demanded Bob Niles. “It _is_ she, I’m sure.”
“And the boys,” cried Dorothy. “Tell them to stop him, Ned!”
Ned White raised his voice in a great whoop. He waved his hands and
pointed to the running Daggett. The latter was almost up to the stack
of burning fodder.
It was Tavia’s quick mind that understood Ned’s yells and gestures. She
sprang straight into the path of the white-haired youth. He dodged
her, but came to his knees. Joe and Johnny, well up in football
tactics, tackled low and brought the fellow down again before he had
fairly regained his feet.
“That’s it! Hold him!” whooped Bob and Ned.
They left Dorothy behind as they clambered up the rough hillside. The
staggering Daggett put forth the last ounce of his faint strength. He
rose up, threw off the two smaller boys, and started on.
And just then a new actor appeared in the field--and a most astonishing
one. A yell of fright sounded, and there sprang out of the fodder
stack--seemingly from the very heart of the fire--a figure wreathed
by smoke and sparks. Indeed, the man’s clothing was afire at several
points.
But most striking of all, his hair was the reddest of the red, and his
freckles stood out prominently on the background of his pale skin.
“Fire! Fire,” he roared. “Who’s tr-ryin’ to burn me up? Wow! is that
you, Poke Daggett?”
He whirled right into the flying Daggett’s arms. He had been trying to
beat out the sparks upon his clothing, and as he collided with Poke,
the two went to the ground.
“It--it’s that redhead!” gasped Tavia. “Oh, it’s surely Tom Moran!”
Joe and Johnny--and even little Roger Dale--ran to assist in putting
out the fire in the red-haired man’s clothing. Poke Daggett rose and
tried to drag himself away.
But Ned and Bob arrived, and the former ordered young Daggett to stop.
“We’ve got a bone to pick with you, you white-haired rascal. Wait!
Isn’t your name Moran?” he asked of the man who had been afire.
“I don’t know--they woke me up so quick,” returned the red-headed one,
with a grin. “However did these kids set the fodder afire? Somebody
will have to pay Simeon Rouse for it.”
“We’ll ’tend to that,” returned Ned, quickly. “But Miss Dale is very
anxious to meet you.”
“Meet me?” asked Tom Moran, for it was he. “About that runaway the
other day? I’m mighty sorry the steers ran----”
“That’s not it,” said Tavia, briskly. “It’s about your sister Celia,
and Miss Olaine, and----”
Tom Moran’s face changed instantly. He forgot all about Poke, who would
have crept away had not Bob taken a turn in his jacket collar and held
the fellow prisoner.
“I guess you’re saying something now, Miss,” said Moran, gravely. “What
do you know about my little sister? I’ve been hunting for her a long
time. And the other person you speak of----”
Then Dorothy arrived and, as Tavia said, “the court of inquiry went
into executive session.”